Some Days I Hate My Job
by LaedieDuske
Summary: Some days they feel like they're fighting evil. Some days they feel like they are the evil. Tough day on the job for the Winchesters. NO slash, NO Wincest, just the brothers being brothers.  Remember those days?


**Some days they feel like they're fighting evil. Some days they feel like they are the evil. No spoilers, can be set whenever you like but I tend to think it's earlier on when the guys_ would_ actually offer comfort to one another. Remember that? When they were brothers and that was the point of the show? -=steps down off the soap box and walks away grumbling=-  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own them. I would take better care of them if I did.**

**A/N - Anna and Queen Bee - thank you so much for your reviews! Wish I could have mailed you directly, but every piece of feedback is helpful so don't be shy about being anonymous!  
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He leans against the Impala with his head hung low. He is breathing shallowly, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Every so often, his breath hitches painfully and his shoulders curl in. Dirty, disheveled, unaware of the lazy trails of blood down the back of his neck and over his face. His coat lies forgotten by the equipment. He is oblivious to the chilly night air that stands his flesh at attention, goosebumps ridging along bare skin. Eyes squeezed so tightly shut he sees sparklers of light behind his lids.

A large hand burns like fire on his shoulder, he flinches but does not move away.

Sam's voice is rough, thick with emotion, "It's done. We can go."

He turns his head, staring at Sam out of bruised and swollen green eyes filled with tears. He opens his mouth to say _I'm sorry I left _or _I didn't mean to leave you alone_ or _I'm a useless crybaby_ but what comes out is a strangled sound, almost like he's choked on a sob.

Sam slings the battered military jacket, and his arm, across his brother's trembling shoulders. Pulling his tormented sibling in tight to the side of his chest in that strange one-armed hug men sometimes use, sharing his warmth and so much more with the suffering man. For once Dean does not pull away. To Sam's unmitigated amazement Dean lays his head on his brother's chest, taking comfort in the sound of his still-beating heart.

"It's okay," Sam chokes out, as his own tears start to fall.

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An eight-year-old boy, smart beyond his years. His teachers hold a conference with his parents, they decide to jump him ahead a grade or two. It will be better for him. He won't be so bored in class. He will be getting the education he deserves to go with his advanced intellect.

Except the other kids don't really see it that way. Especially the class bully and his attending thugs. And one day it goes too far on the playground, the older kids don't know their own strength. Or maybe he's just too small to hold up to the abuse. Or maybe the kids are just vicious and are headed for a life behind bars. Nobody knows for sure. Except the older kids. And they have their stories straight.

And then they start having mysterious accidents. One ends up in a coma.

Enter the Winchesters, for once hesitant and unhappy about the job they must do. Knowing they have to do it anyway and, not for the first time, cursing the life they live.

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Sam knows exactly what Dean sees when that tiny, too-recently-buried coffin is opened. The elder Winchester has barely eaten or slept in the four days they have been in town. When he does nod off, he is awakened not long after - pale, shaking and calling out for Sammy. Dreaming of another little boy who was smart beyond his years but small for his age.

Little Sammy stares up at him from that coffin. "Why did you let me down Dean? Why couldn't you protect me? How could you let me die?"

Dean stumbles away from the hole Sam stands in, his hands pressed hard to his stomach. Away from the open coffin. Away from the accusations of his self-doubt. Sam can hear him retching nearby, and then he hears the all too familiar sound of his brother's head cracking off a grave marker.

How frigged up are their lives that he can identify that sound?

Knowing Dean won't -_can't_- protect himself this time, Sam hurries with the salt and accelerant. He drops a full book of matches and waits only a moment to make sure it takes before hurrying off to find Dean.

He's crumpled against the base of a giant granite angel, arms wrapped around his midsection and breathing raggedly. Sam can see his nose and bottom lip are bleeding, he has a gash over his left eyebrow. His eyes are closed and his face is tight with pain, but to Sam's relief he is conscious.

He decides to leave Dean there for the moment while he puts the grave back together. He wants to get his brother the hell away from there, but his conscience won't let him leave the tiny grave standing open. It just doesn't seem right.

He hears when Dean drags himself to his feet, watches him stumble back towards the car and tries to work faster. His need to know for sure how badly his brother is injured is fast overpowering his conscience.

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Dean's breath is coming in the hiccuping gasps earned by hard sobbing. Sam automatically adds this to "The List Of Things We Never Speak Of Again" and half carries the exhausted hunter to the passenger seat. After depositing the still-shivering form in the car, he crouches down and gives his sibling a quick once-over. No concussion but a decent knot on the back of his head and the gash over his eye is already clotting. His nose doesn't appear to be broken but he's already got the raccoon-eyed evidence of a sharp blow. He has a split lip but overall he came out pretty well. No stitches, broken bones or internal bleeding. A good night by their standards. Except for the...

Stashing the gear and grabbing two ice packs from the first aid kit, he moves back to help his brother get situated with one on his nose and one on the back of his head. His concern spikes when there is no slapping of hands, no resistance to help, just an almost limp compliance. Green eyes glitter out at him from under heavy, bruised lids.

Closing the door with the obligatory squeak of hinges, he hurries to the driver side and slides behind the wheel. He starts the car, taking comfort in the familiar growl of the engine. Turning the heater on high he waits a moment for his brother's baby to warm up.

"Sammy." Muffled and hesitant, barely loud enough to be heard over the Impala's chorus of sounds.

That one word reaches into Sam's chest and constricts his heart painfully. He hears his brother's voice, but in his mind he sees a child forced to grow up too fast - becoming a parent at age 4, his brother's keeper in a very real sense. Charged with his baby brother's safety and well-being almost his entire life, given no other reason for living.

His voice comes soft but determined in the dark interior, "I'm here big brother, I'm not going anywhere." Except back to a fleabag motel with his battered sibling, where he will try to heal what he can of his brother's hurts. Ice, beer and a shoot-em-up flick sound pretty good.


End file.
